


Veritaserum - A Hogwarts AU

by avengerwarlockdetective



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, M/M, because Dickensian, probably angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avengerwarlockdetective/pseuds/avengerwarlockdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts AU -</p><p>In a school full of magic and mischief, conflict and danger, romance and unrequited love, the best you can do is try and survive without getting hurt. However, when the Headmaster, Jacob Marley, is murdered, things take a turn for the worse - there is a Dark Wizard on the loose, and it could be anyone. </p><p>(This will loosely follow the canon plot. The main story arcs will be the Havishams, the Barbarys and Bucket's investigation of the murder, although all characters will feature at some point.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the 20th of December when they received the news. Just past nine on a Saturday morning, to be precise, on the last day of term, and the owls had just soared into the Great Hall with the morning post. The Hall was ringing with the sound of the laughter and chattering of students, the hooting and fluttering of owls, and the irritating sound of Bill Sikes throwing his butter knife into the table.

“Are you expecting any Christmas cards?” Arthur Havisham asked the fifth year, hoping that the younger boy would cease the awful racket if he were talking instead.

Sikes just flicked the butter knife into the table again, where the blade embedded itself with a dull thud. He had been continuously impaling the Slytherin table with the piece of silverware throughout breakfast – flick, twang, thud; flick, twang, thud; flick, twang, thud – until the both the wood and Arthur’s nerves had been pierced repeatedly.

Dislodging the knife from the table from the umpteenth time, Sikes speared a sausage with it, and said (with his mouth full, to Arthur’s distaste), “Nah. My parents’re dead. Even if they wasn’t, I doubt they’d ‘ave remembered.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur replied politely, although he really couldn’t care less. He didn’t like Sikes, and Sikes didn’t like him – the only reason that they were sitting together was the fact that neither of them had anyone else to sit with.

The two lapsed into silence again, punctuated only by the monotonous flick-twang-thud of Sikes’ knife. Arthur’s eyes drifted to a solitary owl swooping through the high windows, having arrived later than its more punctual companions. He immediately recognised as Jip, his sister’s noisy and irksome bird (who resembled, in his opinion, a beaked, feathered puppy rather than an owl, with its clingy and overly-affectionate nature).

Jip landed with a rustle of brown feathers on the Ravenclaw table, and Arthur watched as Amelia extracted a roll of parchment from the creature’s scaly grip. Probably just a petty love note from one of her admirers, he decided, and lost interest, his gaze wandering once again. This time, his eyes landed on a handsome seventh year Slytherin sat a few seats away.

The seventh year winked at him, and Arthur looked away sharply, feeling, to his dismay, heat rushing to his cheeks. Dear god, wasn’t that sort of behaviour a little too risky in public?

From the corner of his eye, he saw the seventh year fixing him with a steady gaze, one that made him feel a little uncomfortable. Unbidden, his eyes flickered back to meet the other young man’s stare. The seventh year smirked, and Arthur narrowed his eyes at him.

Their tense little staring contest was suddenly broken by a sharp gasp across the room and the clatter of a metal goblet on flagstones. The clamour of the Great Hall quietened. Voices hushed, heads turned, and both students and professors alike watched as Amelia Havisham rushed out of the room, the huge oaken door slamming behind her. An excited storm of whispers rose in her wake, as the students of Hogwarts gossiped amongst themselves, delighted in the drama.

“Ain’t that your sister, ‘Avisham?” Sikes asked.

Arthur didn’t answer – he was already on his feet and halfway to the door. He could feel hundreds of eyes watching him, but he kept going, and followed his sister into the Entrance Hall.

Silhouetted against the pale morning light, the older Havisham sibling stood by the window facing the snow-laden courtyard, her clothing and hair dark against the white outside. Her breath painted smoky cobwebs on the window pane, and, even, from the entrance to the room, Arthur could see that her cheeks were bedecked with tears, mirroring the silver glints of the Christmas ornaments hung around the castle.

“Amelia?” She turned to him, and his throat clenched when he saw the devastation upon her face. Her lips parted, as if she were about to speak, but then her composure failed and she broke down in her brother’s arms. All Arthur could do was hold her closely (if not slightly awkwardly, as they had hardly touched in years, and he had not seen her cry since they were children) as she wept.

“Oh lord, Amelia, what’s happened?”

“It’s Father,” she whispered into his shoulder, her voice thick with sorrow and tears. “Oh, Arthur, it’s dear Papa. He’s _dead_.”

* * *

 

“James!” Honoria shrieked, as the boy in question ran from the Gryffindor common room, ducking through the portrait hole with a wink and a smirk at his girlfriend, before disappearing down the corridor. “Come back here right this instant, you thieving rascal!”

The scene was watched with some amusement from the onlookers in the common room, most of whom either were staying at the school for the holidays or had packed in advance (though the number of students returning home was quite low, especially amongst the children from poorer families, as most didn’t want to return to a cold, hungry Christmas, and, besides, the train fare was rather expensive). The few students going home for the holidays were frantically packing their trunks in the dormitories, fearful of not being ready in time for the train home this afternoon.

“What did he do?” Nell, a third year that Honoria had got to know quite well, asked curiously from her perch on the windowsill.

“He stole my journal!” Honoria hitched up her skirts and began to chase after the thief. She scrambled through the portrait hole, only to collide with someone stood just outside. The two went flying, hitting the marble fall with a sickening thud.

“Honoria, what in god’s name are you doing?” Frances exclaimed irritably, pushing her younger sister away and getting haughtily to her feet. “Goodness, no wonder you have such a terrible reputation, running about like a child!”

“No need to get tetchy, Frances,” Honoria replied, standing up and brushing herself down. “Did you see which way James went?” She looked wildly around herself, peering into doorways and down the corridor. “Oh, _damn_. I’ve lost him.”

“Watch your language!” scolded Frances, her lips pursed disapprovingly. “Do you think Father would appreciate you cursing like that?

“Papa doesn’t know any better,” Honoria returned. “Seeing as he is absent from both this school, and, in fact, this country. Why are you lurking in this part of the castle, Frances? I’d expect you to be in –” she gestured vaguely with one hand – “the library, or something of the like?”

“I was, in fact, coming to tell you that Father is returning home from Paris this afternoon.” Frances linked her arm through her sister’s, and began to walk, ignoring the redhead’s half-hearted protests. “Quieten down, Honoria. You clearly aren’t engaged this morning, if all you have to do is chase after your fool of a boyfriend. Take a walk with me.”

“Just because the man I’ve fallen in love with doesn’t aspire to be an arithmancer, or a politician, or some other equally boring profession, doesn’t mean that he isn’t an honourable suitor!” replied Honoria in indignation. “Who are you to pass judgment on him?”

“You can’t honestly think that a Muggle-born training to be an Auror is a suitable choice in partner, Honoria?” Frances fixed her sister with a look that was rather too condescending for Honoria’s liking, so she replied with an affronted glare.

“Oh,” she snapped. “So _that’s_ what this is about. You don’t approve of his parentage.”

“Nor does Father! He’s hardly an appropriate –”

“Just because the very _notion_ of love is incomprehensible to a cold-hearted Slytherin such as yourself, it doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for the rest of us!”

And with that, Honoria extracted herself from her sister’s grip, and stalked off down the corridor, ignoring Frances’s fruitless calls after her. She would fall in love with whom she chose, and she chose James Hawdon. Frances had no right to tell her otherwise!

When she reached the stairs, still having seen nor hide nor hair of her missing boyfriend, and still bristling with displeasure at her sister’s callous words, Honoria’s attention was suddenly diverted – as, two flights below her, Amelia Havisham ascended the stairs in a most dejected manner, her head hung low (which was, Honoria observed, rather uncharacteristic indeed for her proud friend) and her shoulders slumped.

When Honoria’s attempts to catch the Ravenclaw’s attention were unsuccessful, and she had called Amelia’s name repeatedly but to no avail, she raised her skirts above her ankles for the second time that morning, and hastened down the moving staircases towards Amelia. Thankfully, the movement of the staircases was in her favour today, as they didn’t take her on any grand detours (although she almost forgot to jump one of the trick stairs at one point), and she reached Amelia just before the other girl turned off onto the fifth floor (presumably headed towards the Ravenclaw common room).

“Amelia!” Honoria cried, placing her hand on Amelia’s shoulder.

Amelia turned round in confusion, but her face lit up slightly when she saw who it was. Honoria noticed, with some concern, the redness of her friend’s eyes, the tear stains down her cheeks, and the disarray of her usually immaculate hair – dark locks were falling out of their position, as if she had been twisting them through her fingers.

“Goodness, Amelia, has something awful happened? I saw you leave at breakfast, and thought that something must’ve upset you to make you run out like that.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Amelia admitted, her voice downcast. “My father passed away early this morning.”

“Oh! Oh dear, oh, Amelia!” Honoria gasped, unsure of what to say. “I’m terribly sorry!”

Amelia smiled sadly. “Don’t waste your sympathy on me, Honoria. I’ll be quite alright. My tears have run dry, and my shock from the news is mostly over, I think. Although I wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon, I have known that this would happen in the near future for quite a while, now. Arthur, on the other hand, didn’t know at all.”

“How – I’m sorry, forgive me if this sounds rude – how exactly did he die?”

“A problem with his lungs, the physician said. It had been going on for quite a while, but there was nothing the doctors could do.”

“Will you not be returning home for the holidays, then?”

Amelia shook her head. “Arthur and I have decided to stay at Hogwarts this Christmas. Neither of us want to be alone in Satis House this year, so soon after –” She broke off, and took a deep breath. “Anyway, we shall have to return to London for Christmas Eve, for the funeral.”

“Oh, Amelia,” Honoria sighed, embracing the slightly taller girl and holding her tightly. “You are so brave. If my father had been the one to die, I would be an emotional wreck right now. You handle everything so courageously.”

“I _am_ an emotional wreck,” Amelia whispered, so softly that Honoria was almost sure that she had imagined it, until Amelia continued. “I just hide it the best that I can.”

* * *

It was the last Hogsmede trip of the year, and the village was bustling with students buying last-minute Christmas gifts for families and friends. It was likely that Zonko’s and Honeydukes were quite out of stock by now, judging by the sheer number of students crossing the thresholds of the two popular shops.

The excitable melee in the snowy streets was reflected inside the Three Broomsticks – it was full to the brim of raucous students, gossiping over foaming tankards of hot butterbeer and sliding sickles across the bar, the coins glinting in the smoky light.

The bartender, Silas Wegg, was having an animated discussion with Mrs Gamp, the matron who worked in the school hospital wing, and Professor Biggetywitch, the Divination teacher, whilst Emily Cratchit served people drinks, looking flustered.

Arthur sat alone in the corner, staring dejectedly into his glass and feeling bereft. Unsurprisingly, his mind was on the late Mr Havisham. He and his father had not been on close terms, and one could hardly describe them as loving each other (especially after this year, which had been particularly tumultuous in terms of their relationship). Amelia had always been favoured by Mr Havisham, being (Arthur admitted with reluctance) more responsible than her brother, but even before Mr Havisham stopped loving Arthur completely because of _his secret_ , the younger Havisham child had always been looked down upon.

Arthur had tried hard to please his father, had worked to the best of his ability during schooling, and, since then, read every book there is to read about the workings of the brewery and whatnot. Of course, it had never worked, never pleased Mr Havisham, because Arthur was the son of a Muggle (and a working class one, at that), and could never compare to Amelia.

The last time he had seen his father was in early September before the school term began, and Mr Havisham had told Arthur that he never wanted to see him again, that Arthur was a disgrace to the family, that Arthur was _immoral_ , simply because he didn’t feel attraction to the gender that he was supposed to feel for. It wasn’t _fair_.

Despite all this, he was in no way pleased about their father’s death. Even if Mr Havisham had hated his son, the man had been Arthur’s _father_. Even if his father had never loved him, Arthur still mourned for the man that he had used to admire and look up to.

In an attempt to drown his conflicting emotions, Arthur downed the rest of the brandy in his glass, finding solace in its fiery numbness.

“Drinking alone on a Saturday afternoon in the festive season? Something must be terribly wrong to prompt such behaviour. Is something the matter?”

It was a voice Arthur had never heard before, honeyed and silvery and sarcastic, the kind of voice that he imagined only devious and charismatic characters of great wit could possess, and the face it brought to mind was the face of the seventh year Slytherin from breakfast today – the seventh year that he had seen around the school more than a few times, and in the common room once or twice, but had never spoken too. Arthur looked up, and discovered that it was, in fact, the person of his suspicions.

When the young man realised that Arthur wasn’t going to answer his question, he gestured at the table. “May I sit here?”

Arthur nodded, rather bemused, and the seventh year took a seat opposite him.

“I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. My name is Meriwether Compeyson.”

Meriwether Compeyson leant across the table, offering a hand, and Arthur shook it reluctantly. “Arthur Havisham.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Havisham. Now, if I may refer back to my previous question …?”

“My father died this morning,” Arthur informed him numbly. “Although I don’t really see why you should care. You don’t even know me.”

Compeyson leaned back in his seat with an easy smile. “I think I might like to change that.”

Eyes widening fractionally, Arthur stared at him. “Why?”

“I’m enjoy making friends with those of high intellect, such as yourself.”

“How do you know that I’m not a complete imbecile?” Arthur returned. “We’ve never spoken before, Mr Compeyson.”

“If you were a fool, Mr Havisham, then you would be in Hufflepuff!” Compeyson laughed (and Arthur felt a twinge of annoyance, as his favourite cousin was a Hufflepuff, and far from a fool). “Actually, though, I heard about you and your sister’s outstanding successes in your Potions O.W.L.s. It was all over the Daily Prophet after your May exams – she was the first student to get one hundred percent in the subject for two centuries, and you followed in her footsteps by becoming the second. Am I correct?”

Arthur felt that embarrassing flush rising in his cheeks again. “Yes. Our father was the owner of a prestigious potion brewery. He schooled us from a young age about the workings of potion brewing. Our results were hardly surprising, if I don’t sound conceited saying so.”

“Not at all, my friend! I suppose you are both held in high esteem by your family?”

Arthur laughed mirthlessly. “Not exactly. Well, Amelia, perhaps. _Me,_ however? No.”

His new friend frowned. “You’re not liked by your relatives?”

“No – not by my father, at least. I never knew my mother.” He sighed and looked away, as Compeyson’s scrutinising stare was making him feel awkward and uneasy. “Well. Enough about me. Let me buy you a drink, and you can tell me about yourself.”

Compeyson smiled, a mischievous smirk that twisted Arthur’s heart in a bittersweet way and made butterflies flutter in his stomach. “I think we could become good friends, my dear Havisham.”

At that moment, Arthur accepted resignedly that this man was going to break his heart.


	2. Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait for the update! I rewrote this chapter quite a few times because it wasn't really working, and although I'm still not fully happy with it, I really want to continue with the story, so here it is!

“For the last time, Matthew, I am _not_ brewing you a love potion to make Honoria Barbary go to the Yule Ball with you!”

Looking disgruntled, Matthew Pocket kicked at a snowdrift, causing swirls of snowflakes to spiral away into the bitter air, sparkling in the misty dawn. “But –”

“You don’t even _know_ her!” Arthur interrupted. “Besides, she’s going with James Hawdon.”

God, he didn’t want to talk about this right now, today of all days. It was hardly appropriate. Then again, his cousin’s seemingly mindless chatter did distract him from the matter at hand, and held him back from the brink of tears.

“Why are you desperate to go with _her_ , anyway?”

Pocket paused. “Um, she has nice … hair?” He clasped his hands dramatically to his chest; rather miraculously keeping a straight face, he declared: “Alas, my heart has yearned to be with her all these years! I have loved no one but she – she, who is more beautiful than a summer morning; her eyes green like, um – what’s green? – newts! Her face more ... ah, lovely than a … hippogriff?” he trailed off pathetically.

Arthur laughed, despite himself. “Please, Matthew, never try and write poetry. Honoria won’t go to the ball with you, whether you describe her eyes as newts or not – she doesn’t love you, and, the last time I checked, you don’t love her.”

“Both true, but I can’t go to the ball alone. You couldn’t just make a draught of Amortentia, or –”

Arthur spun round mid-step to stare at him. “ _Amortentia_? Are you _mad_ , Pocket?”

At the present moment, he was half inclined to agree with Meriwether Compeyson’s remark that Hufflepuffs were idiots. Amortentia! As if he would brew such a risky potion on Pocket’s whim!

“Arthur, the Yule Ball is _tomorrow_ , and it seems as if every single girl in this school has already got a partner!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure there’s plenty of people that would be willing to go with you.”

“Who are _you_ going with, anyway?”

“No one. I’m not going.”

The decision had not been a particularly difficult one to make – he generally tried to avoid large social gatherings, as having conversations with people he disliked wasn’t exactly his idea of fun, and after the disaster that was last year’s Yule Ball (in which his date, having realised that Arthur had no intention of becoming romantically involved with her, had left him on his own for the entirety of the evening), he had deemed it best to forego the dance altogether this year.

Pocket turned to him, presumably about to berate him about this choice, but was interrupted by a voice behind them.

“Mr Havisham. Mr Pocket.”

The two sixth years turned in mild confusion to find a familiar gentleman striding towards them along the icy path, clad in his usual dark robes and apparently unaffected by the biting cold. Not for the first time, Arthur wondered if the man was in fact a disconcertingly realistic automaton, rather than an actual human being.

The man’s presence was accompanied by the aromas of ink and expensive soap, and, in his mind’s eye, Arthur could picture the dismal office in the Ministry of Magic headquarters, and could see the lawyer thoroughly washing his hands as he was accustomed to after talking to a client.

“Mr Jaggers,” Arthur acknowledged.

Jaggers surveyed the two of them, adjusting his cuffs as he did so. “I presume you are both ready to leave? The ceremony begins in precisely one hour.”

They gave him their assent, and at his invitation, allowed him to escort them up to Professor Marley’s office. The three of them gained more than a few curious looks as they walked through the castle, and despite his hatred for the headmaster, Arthur was glad when they reached the entrance to the office.

“ _Password_?” the gargoyle croaked in its guttural voice from its position inside the large alcove.

One of Jaggers’ eyebrows arched dangerously as he gave the stone creature a sceptical glare. “As a Ministry official, I hardly think that I’m obliged to answer that. Now, please remove yourself from this doorway.”

Arthur and Pocket glanced at each other in disbelief.

“ _You require a password to enter the headmaster’s chambers_ ,” the gargoyle growled.

“I don’t advise you waste my time,” the lawyer said coolly. “I have an important matter to deal with, and you are delaying me.”

With a discontented grumble, the gargoyle spun in the alcove, the spiral staircase rising beneath it. Without missing a beat, Jaggers stepped onto the stairs, beckoning for the other two to follow him. Pocket let out a low whistle, and Arthur elbowed him.

“Your father’s lawyer is rather terrifying,” Pocket murmured in his cousin’s ear as the staircase took them upwards.

“You get used to it,” Arthur whispered back.

Amelia greeted them in the entrance to the office. In the gloom, she resembled a shadowy phantom, a hesitant ghost in the doorway.

“I trust you will look after them?” Professor Marley asked from his desk, not looking up from his paperwork.

“Somehow I doubt you would care either way, but yes, I will,” Jaggers said smoothly, picking up a jar of Floo powder from the mantelpiece. “They will return before dinner this evening.”

Arthur winced, expecting Marley to yell at Jaggers for his blatant disrespect, but, miraculously, the headmaster merely nodded and motioned towards the fire which was already crackling in the grate (which, Arthur thought, was awfully unfair, as the fireplaces in the Slytherin common room remained stone cold throughout the year).

“Enjoy yourselves,” Marley said, tapping the end of his quill upon the inkwell to rid it of excess ink, then continuing to scratch it across the parchment.

“Professor Marley!” Amelia exclaimed in outrage, before clasping a hand over her mouth in embarrassment.

The scratching of the quill ceased, and, slowly, the headmaster raised his eyes. “Yes, Miss Havisham?”

She faltered, looking down. “I’m sorry, Sir, but you _are_ aware of the fact that it is our father’s funeral?”

Marley gave her an unpleasant smile. “Indeed. Enjoy yourselves.”

As if by a psychic familial connection, the two Havisham siblings scowled at the older man – Arthur’s dark eyes flashed, and Amelia began to draw her wand from its hiding place up her sleeve. Fortunately, Jaggers quickly intervened, grabbing both of them by the arms and pulling them over to the fire. “That’s quite enough. My apologies, Professor Marley, but we must leave – Amelia and Arthur can hardly be late to their own father’s funeral.”

As Jaggers passed around the jar of Floo powder, Arthur glanced back over his shoulder at the headmaster, who had already begun to write again, the metal rasping once more over the paper. How dare Marley insult them in such a manner? Granted, they were only students, but telling them to _enjoy themselves_ on the morning of their father’s funeral was uncalled for. Quite frankly, Arthur thought it would be a blessing to the school (and, for that matter, the rest of the world) if Marley decided to kick the bucket and die tonight. It would certainly be a favour to everyone.

With that hopeful thought fixed in his mind (and Amelia and Pocket’s minds too, judging by the thundery expressions on their faces), Arthur cast his Floo powder into the fire before stepping into the flames.

* * *

 

Ravenclaw Tower was a grand and austere part of the castle – tall, arched windows looked out onto the mountains and filtered blue light onto the cool flagstones; heavy tapestries hung, floor to ceiling, depicting scenes of birds in light and running hares under moonlight, bookcases held hundreds of ancient tomes which spoke of legendary deeds and fabled heroes. Even in the summer, the air always tasted like snow, and rain on the mountain tops, and the marble floors were constantly like ice underfoot.

Nancy walked alone through the Tower, winter cloak loose and unfastened around her shoulders. She traced a pattern along the tapestry with one pale finger; under her breath, she hummed a half-forgotten song that had long lost its name.

“What’re you doing, Nancy?”

Dodger’s approach had been silent, but she didn’t start – she had long got used to him sneaking up on her.

“You couldn’t move around a bit more loudly, could you, Dodge?” Nancy said absently, her eyes not leaving the thick fabric under her fingertips. “You’re like a bloody cat.”

From behind her, Dodger gave a snort of derision. “I ‘ope not. I’m allergic to the nasty buggers.” She could feel his dark eyes staring at her inquisitively. “What’re you doing?” he repeated.

Nancy hid a smile. Although she had often felt slightly out of place in their House, Dodger was the perfect model of a Ravenclaw – he had an insatiable curiosity about the world around him, and was constantly asking questions (which, to be honest, was really quite annoying sometimes, but, Dodger being one of her only friends, Nancy hadn’t the heart to tell him to go and bother someone else with his endless queries). If he hadn’t been a Muggleborn, Nancy would have gone so far as to say that he could be the descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw herself.

“Looking,” she answered, her eyes narrowing when she spotted a particular motif on the tapestry – a spherical crystal ball, gleaming like a small moon in the flickering light of an embroidered candle.

“Looking for what?”

“Answers.” Finding the edge of the tapestry, she pulled the fabric back to reveal a small, wooden door set into the stone. Nancy grinned, before remembering the boy hovering impatiently by her shoulder.

“Where does that lead?” His whisper was conspiratorial, excited. “Is it a secret tunnel?”

Nancy batted him away. “Never you mind. Now, if you ain’t going to do anything but ask stupid questions, shove off.”

“You’re not my mother, Nance. I want to see what’s behind that door.”

“Fine,” she sighed in resignation. “But don’t tell no one about this, okay? Especially not Bill. It’s a secret. The door’s location changes, anyway – it’s like the Room of Requirement – so no one’ll find it if they don’t know what to look for, but still, it's a secret. Got it?”

He nodded in earnest, bouncing on his toes with barely contained excitement. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Drawing her wand from her cloak pocket, Nancy glanced around furtively to ensure that they were alone, before tapping the door once on the doorknob.

“ _Ignorance is the curse of God; knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to ‘Eaven_ ,” she chanted.

Nancy paused, listening. Silence. Then – a faint click. Good.

Next, twisting the handle with one hand, and beckoning Dodger forward with the other, she pushed at the door. It swung silently open to reveal a short, narrow corridor; the ceiling was so low that anyone taller than the two Ravenclaws would have to stoop down. Another door was slightly ajar at the far end, and Nancy led the way towards it. Once they had reached the end of the corridor, she turned to Dodger.

“Right, you’ve got to promise that you won’t be scared of what’s in ‘ere.”

Dodger laughed. “I ain’t scared of nothing.” He paused. “What _is_ in ‘ere?”

“Ghosts, Dodge.”

The boy poked her. “Don’t make fun. I know all the ghosts of Ravenclaw Tower, and, far as I know, none of ‘em are scary.”

She lowered her voice even further. “These ones are different. They … tell you things. And the things they tell you – they _always_ come true.”

“So, they’re Seers?”

She smiled. “Right on the mark. This is the ‘All of the Prophets. Every clairvoyant, psychic, soothsayer – or whatever – who’s been in Ravenclaw, they come back here. They know our futures, so be careful what you ask.”

With that, Nancy pushed the door open, to see –

“Miss ‘Avisham?!”

Amelia Havisham stood in the centre of a lofty, circular room, her black mourning gown stark against the phosphorescence of the ghosts around her. Crystal balls and scrying pools, runestones and mirrors, tarot decks and tea leaves, wishbones and knucklebones, ogham sticks and pendulums and incense and hundreds of other strange and exotic artefacts were strewn, glimmering, across tables and bookshelves. Combined with the low, otherworldly light from the ghosts, the whole room appeared to be shining and shimmering and evolving before their eyes.

Dodger took in this scene with open-mouthed amazement, whilst Nancy stared in horror at the intruder to her secret covert. Amelia also looked dismayed.

“Oh, Nancy, Dodger,” she said, wringing her hands. “How did you find … why are you here?”

Nancy folded her arms. “I’ve been coming here since I were a first year.”

“As have I.” Amelia gave her a small smile. “But I thought I was the only one to know of this place.”

“The ‘All of the Prophets,” Nancy supplied, slightly irritated.

“The Hall of the Prophets,” the older girl murmured to herself. “It sounds fitting.”

Nancy tapped her foot impatiently. The ghosts around them had begun to drift away, bored, and Nancy silently willed for Amelia to leave so that she could find out what she needed.

“I thought you was at your Pa’s funeral,” Dodger said, rather untactfully.

“Ah, yes, I was.” Her smile fell slightly. “We returned a short while ago. In fact, I should probably go and find my brother.”

Thank god. “Well, we’re awful sorry for your loss, Amelia.” Nancy shot a smug look at Dodger – at least _one_ of them knew how to act respectfully.

Dodger looked as if he were trying to refrain from sticking his tongue out at her, but instead doffed an imaginary hat at Amelia. “Awful sorry,” he echoed.

Amelia gave them another wavering smile, before nodding her thanks. She hurried away towards the door and ducked through, leaving Dodger and Nancy alone with the dead.

“So, why’re we here?” Dodger began to wander through the Hall, looking with interest at his surroundings. He picked up a hagstone and put the hole in the rock against his eye, before swapping it for a crystal ball which he began to throw into the air and catch it again. The unfortunate spirit who had been using said ball gave a huff of irritation, muttered something that sounded like “ _Could you not_ ,” and tried in vain to snatch the ball back, her hands passing listlessly through the glass and Dodger’s hands. He gave the ghost a wink.

Nancy, ignoring all this, was scanning the room. “Why was _she_ here, is more like it,” she muttered. Suddenly, she saw a ghost across the room, who was attempting unsuccessfully to pick up a quill, a sorrowful frown etched onto his face. “Oi, Charles!”

The ghost looked up, and, seeing who it was, drifted over. His legs passed through tables as he did so.

“Yes, young Nancy?” Charles asked in a mournful voice. “How exactly can I help you?”

“Well, for starters, I’d like to know what Miss ‘Avisham there was wanting with you and your visions.”

Charles sighed, his breath like the rustle of wind through leafless trees. It made goose bumps prickle on Nancy’s arms. “Alas, she wished to know what would become of her and her brother. I would not tell her. I did not want to burden her with such a tragic fate.” He shook his head sadly. “A tragedy, a tragedy.” His eyes flickered to Dodger, who was now holding the crystal ball out to the other ghost before whipping it quickly away before she could reach for it, grinning as she got more and more frustrated. “But who is your mischievous young friend? Hmm … Jack Dawkins?”

“He prefers to be called Dodger. But that’s not why I’m here. It’s Bill. His … _condition_ , you see, it’s getting worse. Fagin’s potions aren’t working anymore – it’s not helping him control it.”

“Yes, that was inevitable. I warned you. Lycanthr –”

“Quiet!” Nancy cut in sharply. “Dodger doesn’t know. Only me and Fagin. Is there no ‘ope for ‘im? None at all? You haven’t had some kind of premonition of a cure or something?”

“No hope, no hope,” sighed Charles in his mournful manner. “Not for him, not for you.”

Nancy blanched. “Well then. I suppose that’s that.”

Charles began to float slowly upwards, as if he had decided that he was tired of the laws of gravity (not that ghosts were subject to those laws, of course). His head passed through a low hanging chandelier. It was an odd image.

“Now, leave and old man in peace,” he told her, the arm of the chandelier seemingly embedded in his upper cranium. “It is Christmas Eve, after all.” He looked wistful. “I used to love Christmas.” Mumbling something about honouring Christmas in his heart and trying to keep it all year, and some nonsense about spirits and learning lessons, he continued to ascend upwards until he disappeared through the ceiling.

“C’mon.” Nancy went to prise the crystal ball away from Dodger and return it to its rightful owner before he stole it – the boy was like a magpie – and, ignoring his protests, dragged him out through the corridor and back into the Ravenclaw Tower, the hidden door clicking shut behind them as the tapestry fell to conceal it.

Dodger turned to her, his usually bright eyes grave. “What’s wrong with Bill?”

“Nothing,” Nancy said immediately. Of course Dodger had been eavesdropping. Quickly, she changed the subject. “Now then, it’s Christmas Eve. We ought to play a game of some sort.”

“Dares!” Dodger declared, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Dares it is - but first, race you to the common room!” She took off, pulling her skirts up to the tops of her shins and laughing as he chased her.

* * *

 

The funeral had been an altogether tedious affair, and the reception was even worse. Two whole hours of forced conversations, practically unknown relatives giving their sincerest apologies, and a series of unimaginative speeches about the late Mr Havisham that were probably supposed to be ‘moving’ … Arthur couldn’t imagine anything more terrible.

Their father had been a popular man, with (in Arthur’s opinion) far too many friends, and, on the other hand, far too many cousins and second cousins and nephews and nieces and whatnot. Ever since the funeral attendees had returned to Satis House for the reception, he and Amelia had been assaulted with endless well-wishes and many, many variations of the phrases “I am so terribly sorry about your loss.”

However, Arthur had accepted the condolences with as much solemnity as he could muster, and had thanked them, before managing to escape to his father’s study.

The old painting of his father hung on the wall, a dark blemish against the wallpaper. It was not exactly familiar sight to Arthur, for as a boy, he had rarely been allowed into the study. It had always seemed to be a mysterious and grand place in his younger self’s mind, but now it was just a dull, old room.

“You know you’re not allowed in here, boy,” the portrait had said, giving him a condescending glare.

“Unfortunately, you can no longer tell me what to do, seeing as you’re dead.” The portrait of his father had looked shocked, and Arthur had felt a spiteful twist of glee in his chest. “Oh yes, Father, you’re as dead as a doornail. Or, perhaps, a coffin-nail - which, in this case, is more fitting, seeing as today is the day of your funeral.”

Mr Havisham (his _portrait,_ Arthur had to remind himself. It was only a portrait. It wasn’t _him_ ) had smiled sadly. “My dear boy, I always knew you disliked me, but this? You don’t even appear to be in mourning!”

Arthur had stared at it. “I _didn’t_ always dislike you! I _loved_ and _admired_ you! But how could I mourn, after the last things you said to me?”

The painting had looked confused, because, of course, it couldn’t know what its subject had shouted to his son the last time they had seen each other. It had opened its mouth to speak, but, unable to look upon his father’s face for one more moment, Arthur had torn the portrait from the wall and placed it face-down on the desk, ignoring its muffled shouts.

Now, hours later, he regretted having gone into the study, and even in the comforting silence of the Hogwarts library, he could still hear his father’s voice, could still see his face. Talking to the portrait had been like rubbing salt in a fresh wound. Arthur stared blankly at the open page of his book, unable to concentrate on the words.

“Reading anything interesting?”

Meriwether Compeyson’s voice cut through his thoughts, sending a shiver down his spine. He looked up to see the seventh year looking at him from across the desk, his features only just visible in the light of the single candle. It was late afternoon now, and the winter sun had just ducked behind the skyline, tendrils of scarlet light leaking through the white, snow-heavy clouds. The light made the seventh year’s eyes gleam crimson, and Arthur couldn’t look away.

He couldn’t help but love the way Compeyson (he couldn’t bring himself to think of the other boy as Meriwether, because the name held an innocent beauty that made one think of spring flowers and sunlight, the beauty Compeyson himself was a much darker and dangerous one) looked at him, as if he were fascinated in whatever Arthur had to say, and as if Arthur were the only person in the world.

“Arthur?”

Arthur blinked, realising that he had just been staring at Compeyson for a good few moments. “Oh, um, yes, I – here.” Aware that he was blushing, he pushed the book over, closing it so the older boy could see the cover.

He raised an eyebrow. “ _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_? That’s a children’s book.”

Arthur’s cheeks grew even warmer, and he hoped that the near-darkness would hide it. “My mother used to read it to me when I was a child. She used to think the stories were outlandish, but I think she loved reading about magic. It was a world she loved, but could never understand.”

Compeyson frowned. “Your mother? I thought you said that you never knew her?”

Oh. He had forgotten about that. “A lie – I’m sorry. We had only just met, and it was easier to explain that I didn’t know her, rather than tell you that she was –” He looked away. “ – a Muggle.”

A slow smile began to spread on Compeyson’s face. “Was she? My, my, Arthur Havisham, a half-blood?”

“Shut up,” Arthur hissed, which gained them a disapproving look from the librarian. He lowered his voice. “It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, Compeyson. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go screaming it to the heavens.”

The other boy smirked slightly. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to cause offence. Of course, I’m a Muggle-born myself.”

Arthur realised that he was staring at the seventh year’s lips again, and quickly flicked his gaze back up to those dangerously blue eyes, which was probably a mistake – their colour was so _intriguing_ \- gunmetal blue, he decided, or the hue of a midwinter sky – and, botheration, he was getting distracted again.

Compeyson, seemingly oblivious to Arthur’s attention, flicked through _The_ _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , the worn pages rustling under his touch. “Tell me about your mother,” he said unexpectedly.

“My mother? Um, well, like I said, she was a Muggle – a cook, actually. My father married her a year after Amelia’s mother died. She was very kind to both of us – Amelia and myself, that is – she treated Amelia like her own. I don’t really remember much about her, except that she wore lavender perfume, made exceptionally good scones and loved books.” He laughed lightly, looking at _The Tales_ in Compeysons hand with fondness. “Father thought reading was ridiculous, though. Why should you let yourself get lost in imaginary worlds when you should be trying to succeed in the real one?”

“How was his funeral?”

All of Arthur’s nostalgia about his mother was lost. “Unpleasant. My father –” He took a deep breath. “He left everything to Amelia.” The words felt bitter on his tongue.

“How terrible,” Compeyson commented blandly.

“Of course it is!” Arthur exclaimed angrily, causing the librarian to glare at him with thinly veiled animosity. He dropped his voice into a whisper. “I was his _son._ I deserve better.”

Compeyson slid _The Tales_ back over the table _._ “I think I may be able to help.”

* * *

 

"What exactly have you done this time, my dear?"

Nancy shrugged, rocking precariously onto the back legs of the chair. "Stole Marley's wand. Nothing big."

With a chuckle of disbelief, Fagin shook his head. "I have to say, Nancy, that you and I have rather different ideas of _'nothing big'_. How on earth did you manage it?"

The girl smirked. " _Accio_. Didn't think it'd work, if I'm honest. It was a dare. Dodger's idea."

The Potions Master sighed, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the desk. "Why am I not surprised? That boy is a rascal."

Dodger, pacing up and down on the far side of the room, glared at him. “Stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here.”

The door creaked open and Bill Sikes sauntered into the classroom, throwing his wand into the air before deftly catching it again. 

"Please stop that, my dear Bill," Fagin sang. "You'll take your eye out. There’s no need to walk around the school armed like a hooligan."

Bill glowered at him. "Full moon," he grunted.

From her chair in front of the desk, Nancy glanced at Dodger before rolling her eyes. She swung her feet up onto to the desk (at this, Fagin tutted and pushed her boots off). "There ain't going to be any werewolf attacks in the castle, Sikes. Stop fretting your pretty little ‘ead off."

"You'd be fretting if one of 'em nearly ‘ad your face torn off," Bill snapped, his glare switching to Nancy, but he gave her a small nod of acknowledgement.

She held both hands up in mock surrender, a mischievous smile still twisting her lips.

"Would you escort Nancy to Professor Marley's office?" Fagin asked Bill. "She's got herself into a spot of trouble, I'm afraid, and I'm sure you'd like the honour of ensuring that she doesn't accidentally get herself into a worse situation?"

"Marley's - _What_?" the Ravenclaw girl demanded, her eyes wide. "No. No chance. I ain’t going to his office. He’ll kill me. He’ll _expel_ me, Fagin, and I ain’t going back on the streets. ‘Ogwarts is the only reason I got out of the mess I were in, and there’s no way in hell that I’m going back."

Fagin gestured helplessly. "There's nothing I can do about it, my dear. If the headmaster wants to see you, he wants to see you. You brought it upon yourself. And -" He daintily picked up a slender blackthorn wand that Nancy had cast unceremoniously onto the desk a few minutes ago. "I believe you have something to return to him. William, here’s your monthly tonic.”

From behind them, Dodger watched curiously as Bill downed a small vial of smoky blue liquid, grimacing at its taste. Nancy shot the younger Ravenclaw a warning look.

With a glare, Nancy snatched the wand from the professor's grip, before stalking out of the Potions classroom, tailed by Bill.

"Look after her, Bill!" Fagin called after them. Bill nodded curtly, and the door slammed shut behind them.

Once they were outside, Nancy glanced at Bill. “Are you feeling all right? What time is it?”

“Late enough,” he said sullenly. “Fagin should know better.”

She laced her arm through his, and grinned. “I know you ain’t going to ‘urt me, Bill. I trust you.”

“I’ll wait for you outside Marley’s office. I don’t want ' _im_ ‘urting you, that’s for sure.”

Nancy frowned. “But what about the moon?”

“I’ve taken the potion, Nance. After I’ve made sure you’re safe, I’ll go. It’ll be fine.”

They fell silent as they passed a jabbering group of first-year Gryffindors on the stairs, who quickly dodged out of their way after Bill snarled at them to get a move on.

“But last month –” Nancy pressed on, an edge to her voice.

“A mistake,” he assured her. “Fagin must’ve made the potion wrong.”

_No hope, no hope. Not for him, not for you_.

“All right,” she said uneasily.

* * *

Outside, the snow had begun to fall again, cascades of crystals blurring past the window. Honoria and Amelia were stood by the glass, watching the shivering darkness; the moon had just peaked its bald white head above the mountain tops and its silver light was filtering through the snow-laden clouds.

“There’s something so sorrowful about the snow,” Amelia said quietly, tracing her fingers along the threads of frost on the other side of the cool glass. “It is like a shroud over the mountains. It as if the world has died, and the clouds wish to hide it.”

Honoria took her hand. “I think it is peaceful. The world isn’t dead – it’s only sleeping. It will be spring before we know it. Amelia; do you need to talk about –”

She was cut off by a shake of the other girl’s head. “No, no, it’s fine. Father wouldn’t want me to mourn for him. I’m just rather worried about Arthur.”

“I expect he’s furious.”

“Yes, and I can understand why. What I can’t understand, however, is why our father has been so harsh on him. I wish there was something I could do.”

“Your father rarely did something unless there was a good reason for it, Amelia. Maybe this is for the best.”

Amelia sighed. “Perhaps. I know you don’t like Arthur, Honoria, but he is my brother, and I do care for him. I don’t want our father’s death to build a wall between the two of us.” She forced a smile, eager to change the subject. “Have I missed much today?”

“Well, it's actually been a rather awful. Frances is still terribly angry at me after our argument the other day, little Nell Ollivander’s gone to the hospital wing with the flu, and Mrs Bumble has been taking away house points and handing out detentions all morning. She took ten house points from Gryffindor simply because I hadn’t tied my shoelace.”

Amelia chuckled. “That woman is awful.”

As if she had heard them from afar, Mrs Bumble appeared from around the corner, shrieking at students to hurry up and get to bed.

“Speak of the devil,” Amelia muttered, and pulled Honoria into an intersecting corridor to avoid the Transfiguration professor’s punishments.

“And you there, Martha Cratchit and John Bagnet, please remove your arms from around each other and get off to your dormitories unless you want a detention!” they could here Mrs Bumble snapping at the unfortunate couple. “And don’t you dare pull a face at me, Bagnet! Five points from Hufflepuff, and be off with you!”

As soon as she had made her way out of sight, the two girls glanced cautiously back down the corridor before hugging each other goodnight.

“Merry Christmas,” Honoria grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

“Merry Christmas,” Amelia returned with a smile, before waving and turning off the corridor towards Ravenclaw Tower.

The castle was quite unnerving after dusk, and although the corridors weren’t quite deserted yet, every time the wind whistled outside or an owl shrieked out in the forest, Amelia started. She picked up her pace, before realising she was being ridiculous and chastising herself for being silly.

Every so often, she would pass enough student, and would exchange a quiet seasonal greeting with them. Even less frequently, a ghost would sail before her, emerging from the wall on one side of the corridor and disappearing into a classroom door.

Each phantom that passed made her mind wander back to the conversation she had held in the Hall of the Prophets before the two young Ravenclaws had interrupted them.

_"I apologise for bothering you again so soon, Charles, but my father died a few days ago, just as you told me he would. The matter of his will and our inheritance has caused somewhat of a dispute between myself and my brother. Have you, by any chance, seen a resolution to this in the near future?"_

_"Please do not ask me such questions, dear Amelia, for I fear to tell you the answer."_

Amelia sighed in frustration. Ghosts almost always spoke in riddles, but this particular answer was troubling her greatly. What could it _mean?_ Surely she and Arthur would resolve their problems?

She reached the staircase than lead up to Ravenclaw tower, but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. Amelia gasped, spinning round to find her brother.

“Goodness, Arthur, you startled me.”

He gave her a humourless smile. “Terribly sorry. I was hoping we could have a conversation.”

“A conversation?” Amelia asked with a frown. “It’s late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

Arthur ignored her. “I suppose you’re awfully happy about the funeral today, hmm? I expect you’re elated to find out that Father always loved you more, so much more – his daughter!” He laughed, and Amelia flinched. “You were worth so much more to him that I was, you, his wonderful pureblood daughter. And now you have everything, and I have next to nothing.”

She turned away. “Arthur, not here. We will discuss this another time.”

“No,” he insisted sharply, grabbing her wrist. “We will discuss this _now_.”

“Arthur!” Amelia exclaimed, pushing him away. “I understand that you’re upset –”

Arthur drew his wand from his robes, pointing it at her. “Upset? A slight understatement. In September, our father all but disowned me, and now he’s confirmed it.”

“Arthur, stop it!” Amelia said angrily. “You’ll regret it if you hurt me. You’re not thinking clearly!”

Her brother widened his eyes in mock surprise. “I’ll regret it? Are you sure? I think a nice little hex will do you well, quite frankly.”

“Stop!” she cried, as an unfamiliar voice shouted, “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Wrenched from its owner’s hand by an jet of light, Arthur’s wand flew across the corridor and clattered onto the floor, and the two siblings turned, startled, to see the caster of the spell – a seventh year Slytherin boy that Amelia didn’t know.

Arthur dived for his fallen wand, but the seventh year hit him across the jaw and the younger boy was knocked to the floor. Scrambling to his feet, Arthur turned to the seventh year with balled fists, ready to strike again, and the other boy brandished his wand as if it were a sword.

“Please, stop, both of you!” Amelia shrieked, throwing herself between them. “That’s enough!”

The seventh year lowered his wand, looking at her with anxiety in his blue eyes. “Gosh, I am very sorry. I saw that you were in danger and simply wished to help.” He glared at Arthur, distaste curling his upper lip. “I am ashamed that a member of my house would threaten someone in such a way.”

“He meant no harm,” Amelia said quickly. “He’s just upset. I’m dreadfully sorry that you had to get involved, Mr …?”

“Compeyson,” the young man said, taking her hand to his lips with a smile. “Meriwether Compeyson.”

Arthur, a hand to his bleeding lip, pushed past them, glaring at Meriwether Compeyson as he did so. “I won’t forget this,” he hissed, before disappearing down the stairs.

“Arthur!” Amelia called after him helplessly, but he was gone.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Meriwether offered. “I could escort you to Ravenclaw Tower?”

“Ah, no, it’s quite all right,” she assured him, distractedly, still looking mournfully at the stairs which her brother had gone down. “Well, thank you, Meriwether, and goodnight.”

She began to leave, but he caught her arm.

“Wait. I don’t even know your name.”

“Amelia Havisham,” she said, giving him a shy smile.

“Well,” Meriwether grinned. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Amelia Havisham. I do hope we will see each other again.”

“I hope so, too,” Amelia agreed, rather flustered. “Merry Christmas.”

* * *

“Was that completely necessary?”

Arthur paced outside the door to the Slytherin common room, clearly awaiting Compeyson’s return, looking up as the seventh year strode towards him.

“Was what completely necessary, my dear Havisham?” Compeyson asked absently, not really listening. The conversation with Amelia had been a small success, and he was quite pleased with the way that it had turned out. The girl certainly had shown some interest in him.

“ _Everything_. I hated saying those things to Amelia.”

Compeyson sighed, saying the password and opening the door before he continued. “You meant what you said, didn’t you?”

“Well ... in a way.” Arthur followed him through the door into the common room, running his hands anxiously through his hair. “I don’t want to hurt her, though – I never would have said those things to her face. And,” he added, giving Compeyson a resentful glare, “you didn’t need to hit me that hard.”

Compeyson chuckled. “I had to make it realistic.” He drew his wand and tapped the younger boy's broken lip. “ _Episkey._ ”

Arthur hissed in pain, but a second later the gash had healed over. He touched his lip tentatively. “Ouch. Thank you. I think.”

“Anyway, well done. You’re a surprisingly good actor, and I think Amelia has taken a liking to me.”

The other boy gave him a sceptical look. “How can you tell? You were only talking to her for a few moments.” Compeyson smiled. “I could see it her in her eyes. Reading emotions is simple, once you know how. I find it easy to see how someone is feeling – be it curiosity, hate, love …” He drawled the last word.

A faint flush coloured Arthur’s cheekbones, but Compeyson pretended not to notice. However, notice it he did. He smiled. It seemed he already had both of the Havishams wrapped around his finger.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although at modern day Hogwarts, the Yule Ball is only held during the Triwizard Tournament, I thought it was likely that during the 19th century the Ball would be an annual event as stuff like that was much more popular at that time.  
> Also, the password that Nancy used to get into the Hall of the Prophets was a Shakespeare quote from Henry VI. :)


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